Hope For The Best
by Left Eye Better
Summary: Ratchet's kind spark causes him trouble. The trouble being the attention of a Stunticon. Two part ficlet.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Hope For The Best

Writer: Left_eye_better

Rating: M

Characters: Ratchet, Dead End, and ensemble

Summary: Ratchet's kind spark causes him trouble, and attracts the attention of a Stunticon.

Prompt: Ratchet/Dead End: Deprived from the Start

Warning: Suggestion of possibly unwanted smexings

Word Count: 4887 (For Completed Piece)

Continuity: G1

Disclaimer: Transformers is property of Hasbro/Takara

Ratchet had been thrown into his cell with enough force to send him skidding across the surface of the floor till his shoulder collided with the wall. It wasn't the first time he'd ended up prisoner to the Decepticons, and he knew that at the next battle the Autobots were likely to catch a Decepticon soldier or four to use as fuel for an exchange. The medic's hands got under his form and he managed to push himself up.

Sitting on the floor of tight quarters cell the white and red mech surveyed his condition. He was scuffed, dented, his right knee joint needed to be realigned in order for him to walk steadily, his right optic's outer lens was cracked, and that slide hadn't done much for his shoulder, but all things considered it could have been much worse. He scooted over to the wall mounted bench and levered himself onto its surface, hoping to escape the grimy floor. Looking to the bench, his expression shifted into a sneer. The bench wasn't much better than the floor for cleanliness. He kept his chemical analyzing programs off. Ratchet had no desire to know what exactly contaminated the filthy cell, although he already had some suspicion.

The door to the cellblock slid open, and Dead End entered with a limp. His optical band was dimly lit, and if the Medic had any opinion on the matter it was that the mech who was likely meant to be his guard was in worse condition than the mech he was supposed to be guarding. The Stunticon looked battered. His battlemask was dented from what looked to be an impact from an oversized fist, and from the grey of the paint smear Ratchet was led to believe it was most likely from the mech's own gestalt leader.

Dead End's dorsal plating ended up against the wall next to the opening to Ratchet's cell, and the medic moved to be able to keep inspecting the other. He'd repaired the youngling before after Warpath had not so accidently put a fist through the Porsche's roof straight through to the flooring of the other's cabin. The shock of the damage had sent the Stunticon into stasis automatically.

Shaking his helm, Ratchet looked at the youngling once more as the mech pulled a polishing cloth from subspace in a rather piteous attempt to remove his armor of some of the damages. Eventually Dead End gave into his leg's demand and moved down the wall to sit on the floor. His operational leg was pulled close while the one that had sustained the damages was stretched out in front of him. "You should be in your Medbay being treated." Ratchet spoke after witnessing the other's discomfort in his descent to the floor. He received no answer. The only acknowledgement he had from Dead End was the sports car's hand pausing in its polishing only to continue after a moment. "I thought the Stunticons from your design schematics had individual forcefields to protect you from damage in Alt-mode. They don't seem to be operational."

"You should be praying instead of making idle chatter. Megatron could decide to end your life." Dead End's helm bowed slightly to inspect a mark on his armor. Behind his mask a frown brought down the edges of his mouth. The damage had gone through the paint to bare metal.

"Could, but I can say with confidence he won't. I'm too useful… whether as a bargaining chip or as a medic." Ratchet leaned back into the wall of the cell and glanced to the ceiling while lifting his more mobile arm behind his helm as a rest. "Speaking of being a medic, you're rather rough all around. I'm surprised they let you guard me when you're this damaged." Again, the white mech's observations were ignored.

He leaned forward, looking to the young mech once more. He rarely had the time to think of the Decepticons as actual mechs and not just foes that caused harm to the ones in his immediate care. The Aerialbots had endured their rough period of adjustment between their group and the regular Autobot troops on Earth. They had fuel though, when they needed it, and emergency repairs were never delayed. Certainly, they'd never have been forced to work in anything resembling Dead End's current condition. They were created as full-sized mechs, their coding completed and their lives given by Vector Sigma. War was not a place for sparklings, nor was it a place for younglings such as the two gestalts, but as Prime had decided it was a necessary evil. He didn't regret assisting in the creation of the Aerialbots, but he did regret not being able to provide them the lives they deserved. In looking at Dead End he doubted the Stunticons knew what they were being deprived of.

Ratchet was a medic first, and an Autobot second. Seeing the sports car mech attempt to tend to himself was something that tugged at his spark. It wasn't right, not when he had the knowledge to help. "Dead End," The other momentarily stopped inspecting his knee joint but started again as if knowing better than to attempt to converse with the prisoner. "Dead End, I've repaired you before. I'm not exactly in any condition to run off. Let me take a look at your damage." He made a motion to convey he was suggesting that the other join him in his cell.

"I will get repaired soon enough without your help. I'm not so foolish as to betray my orders to seek repairs from an enemy, especially when the enemy offers to conduct them. You have nothing to gain from my repairs." The Porsche left his damaged knee joint to take the polishing cloth to his able leg. His optics didn't even flicker in Ratchet's direction.

"I get not having my conscience eat at me while I'm sitting here. I know you might not understand that concept but I'll explain it really slow for you. I don't like to see mechs injured, especially not when I'm capable of possibly helping. It's called compassion." The medic tried to keep from getting overly snippy, knowing that it would most likely deter the Stunticon. "I just want to help. The cellblock door is locked, if somehow I manage to overpower you in my damaged, weaponless state, I won't get far and I'm not going to take on an underwater base full of 'Cons. I have hope, but not blind optimism. You'd need to talk to Bumblebee for that."

Dead End's helm turned to actually look at him as he spoke. "I don't understand why you keep repairing mechs anyway. We are all food for rust." The statement was solid, and an undisputable fact. The younger mech's visor was barely lit and he let his helm rest back against the wall. Times like this after battle, and before the energon was distributed to the teams, a wise mech should try to conserve energy.

"We are, but the point of living isn't to get it over with… but to get the most out of it while you have it, and that generally implies not giving it up easily." There was silence between them as their optics locked.

"You are just delaying the inevitable." The younger mech was the first to speak.

"And you are too quick to throw away a gift from Primus." Ratchet's temper flared and his voice rose. There were some topics that mechs learned not to argue with a medic. Leaning back and cycling air he reminded himself the Stunticon was a product of his environment at this point. The younger mech had lowered his helm as if in thought about the other's words. At least the youngling seemed like he was willing to think about something beside chaos, and inflicting pain on others.

Reaching into a subspace pocket he hadn't been forced to empty, the medic produced rations of enriched energon. They were packaged in a heat resistant wrapper to prevent them from exploding in high temperatures, as the substance was prone to do. Ratchet tossed one of them through the gap in the bars near his guard making it package fall in the other's lap. Dead End jolted upright, and his visor brightened as he looked down at the item. Picking it up, the Stunticon inspected it, turning it over in his hands slowly as if he'd never seen one, and when Ratchet considered it the other most likely hadn't. "It's energon."

Dead End turned around even more to look at the Autobot. His helm tilted in a quizzical way that made the medic smirk. Ratchet held his package up for the other to see and then demonstrated how to easily open it. The package was then emptied in the older mech's red hand. It was a solid bar that held its shape. He took a bite of it to prove its harmless nature to the sports car.

Dead End turned the package over a couple more times as if debating on if to follow the medic's example or to save it for a time that he might not have energon promised to him, but his lack of belief in his survival spurred him into action. At first he attempted to open it in a similar way to how the other had but after an unsuccessful attempt and him not realizing that the other side of the package was the side he was supposed to open, he pinched the sides of the packaging and pulled the seal on the end apart.

Ratchet had spoken during this process to inform him it was the other side only to quiet once the package was in fact opened. He watched as the younger mech pulled the bar from the wrapper. He had been there to teach the Aerialbots how things were done, but upon watching the Stunticon interact with a foreign and new object he realized had he not, they would have learned on their own and a part of him wondered if he had not robbed them of the potential to learn simple problem solving. The Aerialbots were already insecure from being the only team of flyers in the Autobot ranks on Earth, did perhaps being so used to having everything shown to have a correct way of being done increase their anxiety? He let it go. There was no reason to think about it while in his present situation.

They ate quietly, and although Dead End acted as though he didn't say it, and Ratchet acted as though he didn't hear, the Stunticon quietly thanked the Autobot for the meal.

xxxxxxxxxx

Kindness begets kindness. It was something that Ratchet had known, had believed in but had never dreamed of in this application. It was a strange enough situation they had ended up in. The Decepticons had another one of their brilliant energy harvesting ideas. This plan involved burrowing in under a newly constructed geothermal energy plant and leeching from its collected fuel…only something had gone wrong and it had ended up with a small force of Autobots and an equally small force of Decepticons battling in the underground tunnels. The medic was pretty sure this in some way was Wheeljack's fault for the use of an experimental bomb in an enclosed area.

Blame wasn't his main priority at the moment, though. Ratchet dangled over the edge of a magma pit and the only thing saving him was the firm grasp of a Stunticon's hand on his forearm. It was a worrying thought, and he was certain that the mech would drop him but when the mech started to pull him up shock replaced the knowledge of his potential end. When close enough, he moved his hand to grip the earthen ledge to help in pulling himself up.

They both collapsed on the sturdy ground. The heat and stress making their intakes draw air frantically. Neither of them could move at first. "Why?" Ratchet started to get to his hands and knees joints. He was still confused at the younger mech's actions. Dead End remained still and didn't answer. The Stunticon's visor flickered. "You okay, kid?" Shakily straightening, he crossed the short distance to the other's side on his knees. Glancing around them, he noticed that the explosion had resulted in their separation from the battle. A massive amount of stone and earth blocked them from their brothers-in-arms. His attention turned back to the mech sprawled on the ground before him. He winced in empathy when he saw exactly why the other wasn't responsive.

The maroon and grey mech's midsection had a large clean semicircular hole take from it. Dead End's hand must've moved to cover it after he'd moved from the edge of the ground to somewhere safer. If left untreated, it would be the death of the younger mech. Ratchet's hand took hold of the Decepticon's, moving it gently out of the way. All he would be able to do in this environment would be to seal any leaks and possibly patch wires back together.

It wasn't long before the medic was wrist-deep in his patient's torso. He had been concentrating on his work when the Stunticon's hand found his forearm. "Why?" Ratchet looked from his work to the other's helm. Between the optical visor and the battlemask the younger mech's face was practically unable to be seen. The mech wasn't as readable voice-wise as First Aid, seeming to prefer to stick to a near monotone.

"You pull my aft out of a smelter, literally, and you are asking why I'm patching a hole in your gut?" The medic's optical ridge rose in a mocking way. "I know you Decepticons might not have much idea on repaying debts, but I owe you this one." His hands continued to work as he spoke.

"You don't make any sense." Dead End's helm tilted back as he looked to the tunnel's ceiling above him. "As a Medic you'd save more lives by letting me die."

Ratchet cycled air and concentrated on the damaged area. "As that may be, I have to worry about what is in front of me now. While what you said might have something to it, but I'm not prepared to deal with the repercussions of watching you slowly bleed out." It was hard not to raise his voice. It was hard not to yell creative obscenities at the younger mech but it was something he felt compelled not to do, for once. He had the chance to be a positive factor in this mech's life.

"You're a medic. You could deactivate me and I wouldn't feel it. A much kinder fate than I would likely-" The sudden strike silenced the Porsche. His helm was still turned in the direction the hit had forced it. The youngling didn't turn his helm back to look at Ratchet, a learned reaction from dealing with aggressors.

Ratchet was surprised by his own action. He hadn't expected to lash out…not in the middle of treatment. "I will not murder you." His voice was sharp, and hopefully crystalline clear.

"You'll wish you had." Dead End's purple optical visor dimmed before powering down as the Stunticon lost consciousness again his hand sliding off of Ratchet's forearm.

xxxxxxxxxx

Wheeljack regretted using that bomb back at the geothermal plant battle. The medbay and his adjoining lab had been permeated with a black cloud of anger from his long time colleague. When he'd apologized, Ratchet had even stated that he wasn't mad at him…which while that should have been a relief it wasn't. When they had recovered Ratchet he'd been with a seriously injured Stunticon which once the repairs had been completed the medic was all too ready for the mech to be thrown in a cell somewhere where he wouldn't have to deal with the beliefs of the other.

First Aid, being the amiable mech he was created as, offered to take Ratchet's place in checking on the progress of the sports car mech's self-repair, but the CMO had declined the offer. It was his work. He started, and he'd sure as well fragging make sure it was finished. Grabbing a tool kit for delicate repairs, the older mech had taken his rage with him, leaving the medbay oddly quiet. First Aid had moved his work into the lab as to have company, and Wheeljack was at a loss on what it would take to cool their main medic's anger.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

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Ratchet knew it had been a bad idea to provide the Stunticon with his comm. frequency, but the knowledge he'd gained of the other's existence bothered him. When the youngling's world was so entirely bleak, it pulled at his spark. No one that young should be that hopeless. He'd set out from the Ark that dreary afternoon after explaining to Wheeljack his situation. The medic knew it was likely that he was driving into a trap. Delivering himself to the hands of the enemy, all because he wanted to be able to possibly assist the younger mech if trouble ever arose.

The city was even darker than the night he'd originally emerged into, between the shadows cast by all the buildings and the contrast between the streetlights… its velvet blackness was more intense than what could exist in the open rural routes that led to the Ark. He crept down the streets toward the location that was provided to him. Ratchet paused around the corner from the designated location, but froze when his scanners picked up two Decepticons. This was better than he'd expected… but worse than he'd hoped. Transforming, he moved into the parking garage, having to duck to enter.

Dead End hovered near his brother's prone form. He'd always know about his gestaltmate's faulty pump, and he'd known about the stress that driving through populated areas would cause Breakdown… but ironically, he'd never put the two ideas together to lead to a scenario of possible death as what had happened today. After forcibly dragging his brother into the garage, the Porsche had pried off the other's chest plates and manually, by reaching his hand into Breakdown's form, moved the pump every so often.

He could stop, and let his brother go, and follow him. He was in no way obligated to keep living, or drag out Breakdown's equally miserable existence. He'd called Ratchet, and as pedesteps approached, his energon soaked hand went to the gun on the ground beside him. His helm turned toward the sound, and once realizing it was the Autobot medic his fingers left the gun, iridescent marks in their wake. "You came."

"We discussed the idea of having a conscience before. Don't tell me you've called me out in a rain storm to have it again." Ratchet moved closer and took a knee beside the fallen blue and white form. "What's wrong with him?" After a short exchange of glances Ratchet decided to rephrase his question. "Is he the reason you called me out here?"

Dead End nodded and removed his hand from the other Stunticon's chassis letting Ratchet take his position. "He has a faulty energon pump. I believe it has decided to downgrade from faulty to outright broke." Processed energon dripped along the Porsche's fingers and to the ground between his pedes.

The evenness of the maroon mech's tone should have surprised Ratchet, but for some reason it did not. He worked, first rerouting the energon to skip the pump entirely for the time being, to still allow the Lamborghini's vitals to have fuel, and then moved to actually removing the pump to inspect it. The seal wasn't perfect, allowing fuel to navigate its way into the main workings of the pump and flood it eventually causing shutdown. "No, it's still faulty. I do suggest that he get a permanent replacement, but I can get this one working again. At least temporarily."

Again they sat in mutual silence as the medic skillfully disassembled the malfunctioning part. The sky outside the garage finally broke with a peal of thunder being the only warning before it flooded the world with rain. The buildup of electricity in the atmosphere made a shiver run down Ratchet's spinal struts. Looking away from his work and toward the Porsche, he wondered if the youngling that knew only Earth was affected by that natural build up, as the older mechs that were unfamiliar with them and had lived on Cybertron were. It didn't appear so, but the younger mech, as he'd discovered in their time spent in each other's company, had one Pit worthy poker face.

He dried the parts of the pump and rebuilt it. Leaning back over the blue and white form, he planned on returning the component to its proper place. A hand touched down on his shoulder, and the medic froze as he heard the distinctive sound of a battle mask retracting. "I called you. I owe you." Dead End's voice was much easier to understand without the mask serving to muffle it.

Ratchet was still on the opposite side of the downed mech's form from Dead End, and in looking up he saw for the first time the younger mech's mouth. The bronze colored plating was pulled into a rather attractive smirk. "I didn't come here with the expectation of getting something. I came because I wished to make your life a little less terrible. It's not right how you have to live." The hand on his shoulder moved to his cheek plate, surprising him into silence with its gentleness.

"I don't have much, and what I have is likely to get scrapped tomorrow." Dead End leaned across his gestaltmate's unconscious body to whisper. "We could make our lives both a bit less terrible for a breem or two. I wouldn't mind buffing your paint off mine, not this time." The sports car's uncovered lips brushed the smooth curve of Ratchet's audial sensor. "I don't want to be in debt to an Autobot."

Ratchet froze when the younger mech encroached upon his personal space. Being a medic meant he was less concerned about entering the personal space of others, but it was rare for the favor to be returned. Between the implied sensuality the younger mech was trying to get across, and the charge in the air from the ambient storm, the medic could've almost justified giving into the request. Focusing again on the task at hand, which was completing urgent temporary repairs on Breakdown, he lifted his free hand and shoved the maroon mech away. "I'm working." The push separated them back to their own side of the blue and white Stunticon between them. "I'm here to do repairs, not to take advantage of any offer made by a youngling that doesn't know better."

The Porsche settled back on his haunches with a tenseness that foretold this topic was far from over. "So mechs of my age can fight and die for a war we didn't start, but can't decide who we can give ourselves to?" His optical visor glinted dangerously.

"I did not say that, and you'll kindly refrain from putting words in my vocalizer." Ratchet leaned back over the form in front of him and carefully reinstalled the component. "Have that pump replaced if you place any value on your or your gestalt's life, do you understand?" The medic glanced up at Dead End see if the other was going to respond.

"He won't let anyone fix it. His paranoia interferes. Between him, Wildrider's disregard for his safety or ours, and Motormaster's… leadership style, surely we are not bound to this world for long." Dead End bowed his helm and looked to his gestaltmate. "Only a matter of time."

xxxxxxxxxx

Wildrider had surprised Dead End. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, and in this case it wasn't an unwelcomed occurrence. The gift-wrapped Autobot medic lay unconscious on his berth at the temporary Stunticon base. The maroon mech had claimed the room as his own, ejecting Dragstrip from it. He took his time collecting the polishing cloths he wanted, and selecting the polish he wished to use on the medic's pale finish. He had thought his simmering want for the Autobot had been kept from the gestalt bond, but obviously that delusion was illogical as the very nature of his craving. He crawled across the berth on his hands and knees to straddle the medic's form. The quiet ventilations that were barely audible confirmed the delicious fact that the mech was still alive. It was something that both he, and the white mech… in one way or another agreed upon. That life was fragile.

He took hold of Ratchet's chin turning the other's helm to face him. The Stunticon's facemask drew away from his face. His glossa nervously dampened his lips before he pressed them to the slightly parted lips of the medic. Getting something he desired tasted sweet. It was rare. He wasn't sure if it was something that he'd long stopped wishing for, or if it was something he had never bothered wishing for at all. Bronze lips meshed against silvery grey. His glossa cautiously mapped the inside of Ratchet's mouth before he retreated from the kiss. His gestaltmate had managed to bring the object of his desire to him uninjured. He owed the crazed mech. He let go of the medic's helm, allowing it to roll back to the side. Dead End nipped at the other's jawline, before moving to the medic's neck workings.

Smirking, the Porsche remembered he had plans before he could indulge himself. He straightened his back struts so he was no longer dependent on supporting his weight with a hand on the berth. With his hands now free, he traced the blocky shape of the ambulance mech. It wasn't the other mech's physical form that attracted him, as vain as he was. He lived among the beautiful forms of seekers, and the flyers of the Decepticon army. They were standard fare, but the internal beauty the medic possessed wasn't. The firm hope, and the willingness to help with the knowledge he had nothing to gain in return, it was attractive to the Stunticon in a near maddening way.

His hands roved over the pure white paint before hitting the red midsection. He tugged at his brother's handiwork. The chains were sturdy and wound tightly, but with patience he undid them, and pushed them to either side of his Autobot. His optics looked over the form below him. It was clean enough to wax. He had no need to attempt to drag the larger form to the washrack. Reaching for the polishing cloths and the wax he started the process, concentrating firstly on the medic's helm, and moving lower on his front as he continued. White was an annoying color to get to a high gloss. One almost had to feel the armor to know it in fact had been shined to a perfect finish. The red seemed to deepen in color at the attention, and showed the wax beautifully.

As Dead End's touch made its way across the Autobot's interface panel, the unconscious mech started to stir. His fingers twitched, his mouth closed, and he swallowed oral lubricant to rewet his intake… Dead End intently took note of the changes. Both their engines gained speed ever so slightly, Ratchet's from his subroutines picking up, and the Stunticon's from the flutter of his excitement. He decided to set the cloth aside, deeming that he could always continue the polishing later. Gathering Ratchet's wrists above the medic's helm, he used the chains to secure them so he could easily hold them in place with one hand. He pressed himself against the other's form, and nuzzled the exposed neck. "I would suggest not struggling much, especially since I just spent a good deal of my time bringing you up to a decent shine." His voice rumbled in a dangerous purr as he mouthed the medic's neck to gain a taste of the wax he'd applied.

Ratchet pressed against the form on him, and the hand restraining his own. His optical shutters were only half drawn and his optics only partially lit as he was still booting up. He heard another's voice speaking, but not what it had actually said till he looped the audial feed. Dead End, great. Ratchet groaned in annoyance as his memory came back to him. He'd received coordinates again, and then he was jumped and now… He tested sitting up, and the weight of the other kept him from doing so. "Dead End, I don't know what you're playing at, but slag if you think I'll ever help you again if you don't-"

The Stunticon's free hand slid into the gap in the plating between the medic's hood and abdominal plating. His fingers curled in wires and lines, tugging slightly to cause the other to gasp, but not enough to cause pain. Dead End's visor was a rich purple in hue. The sports car's engine growled, causing the vibration to travel through his frame into Ratchet's. Lifting his chin, he placed his lips close to his Autobot's audial as he whispered, his slight smile evident in his tone. "Come now, dear Ratchet… aren't you going to hope for the best?"


End file.
